Very Necessary
by Duppy Conqueror
Summary: A Valera-centric piece Set in season 3. Speed's dead and Ryan finds himself competing with a dead man outside of work. Hints of Speed/Valera, eventual Valera/Ryan. Had to repost due to rating foibles, it's T for now, maybe definitely M later. R/R
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything related to CSI: Miami. Title and lyrics come from the Salt-n-Pepa song "None of Your Business" from the album _Very Necessary._ If you were born after 1993, I recommend a listen because in the nineties it was still okay to be successful, sexy and a feminist, but of course that was before _The Hills_ destroyed our culture and women's chances.

A/N: This is a prequel of sorts to my other story, still in progress, "Evenings with Lenny". You don't have to read Evenings to get this, but I'd like it if you did. This story is set just after Speed's death when Ryan first joined the team. I think he and Valera would have been particularly hot together then. And, I think the CSI: Miami fanfic world needs more Valera centric pieces in general, so here goes.

Very Necessary

Prologue: None of Your Business

_Are we simply romantically challenged, or are we sluts?_

_-Carrie Bradshaw, Sex in the City_

_You should go through life like I do-not expecting men to fill you up, except for when, well, you know._

_-Samantha Jones, Sex in the City-and heroine to loose women everywhere._

_What's the matter with your life?  
Why you gotta mess with mine?  
Don't keep sweatin' what I do  
Cause I'm gonna be just fine - check it out_

_If I wanna take a guy home with me tonight  
It's none of your business  
And she wanna be a freak and sell it on the weekend  
It's none of your business  
Now you shouldn't even get into who I'm givin' skins to  
It's none of your business  
So don't try to change my mind, I'll tell you one more time  
It's none of your business_

_Now who do you think you are  
Puttin' your cheap two cents in?  
Don't you got nothin' to do  
Than worry 'bout my friends? Check it..._

It's not like I meant for this to happen.

I know that people have a lot of misguided opinions about me. It comes with the territory when you're the only former model with an eccentric life story in your work place. It's not every day that a girl retires from the catwalk to be a DNA analyst for the Miami Dade Crime Lab. Active, and former, models are a dime a dozen in this city, but for some reason I'm still a bit of a novelty around the office, and the water cooler gossip is not always very flattering.

For the most part I try to ignore it, and sometimes just for badness I play along. For instance, I allow people to believe the rumor, started much to my regret by Tim Speedle, that I own a sizable pornography collection. The truth is, there are a lot of adult movies housed in my DVD cupboard, but none of them belong to me. They are the treasured property of my roommate Daniel who is a hairdresser, and in keeping with tradition, a homosexual. And let me tell you, you do not come between a gay man and his porn, even if he insists on displaying it proudly in your mutual DVD collection. So, the porn collection is real okay? But it's not mine.

I suppose I should have set the record straight at work when Tim started running his mouth, but, well, I figured he just misconstrued my meaning that day in lab when I told him about the square footage of Daniel's collection. I never thought Tim would assume the porn was mine, or that he'd tell our co-workers about his deductions. Once it became apparent that my colleagues were more than willing to believe I was an avid porn collector I decided to let them persist in their delusions. If you're going to be infamous, you may as well live up to your reputation whether it's deserved or not.

The whole porn thing was just so typical of my interactions with Tim, and our, for lack of a better word, relationship. It's not like we were ever a real item. Whatever we had, it consisted of a series of confusing run ins, and baffling conversations, during which I acted like a love sick fool, and he came off like an older James Dean. Let me just state for the record, crushes are totally not my style, and the whole situation with Tim was constantly embarrassing, even when he wasn't insinuating to people that I have a predilection for porn. Then, as if things couldn't get any worse, he died. Turns out Tim didn't just take a devil may care attitude towards love. He was also reckless when it came to gun maintenance, and the damn thing jammed on him during a robbery leaving him fatally vulnerable to a criminal's bullet.

But, I digress. None of this is relevant just at the moment.

All you need to know right now is this; I didn't mean to end up attempting to have anonymous sex, with what would turn out to be future co-worker in the bathroom of Miami's hottest new club. Honestly, no matter what anyone says about me, this was not a typical night out for Maxine Valera, at least not since I was seventeen, and still living in Paris. There were extenuating circumstances at play.

First of all, I had no idea I would ever see the man I was wrapped around again, let alone at work. Secondly, I was in mourning. Tim had died only a few months prior, and I was still unable to deal with my grief. Some people wear black and mope around the house when a loved one dies. I had chosen to wear black, but not much of it, and rely on alcohol and dance floors to get me over my sadness. So, in my defense, I was not in control of my actions, or my emotions when I decided to drag my random drinking partner for the night into a bathroom, and rock his world.

Normally, I wouldn't care what anyone thought of me, at work, or anywhere else. But, in the wake of Tim's death I had decided to turn over a new leaf, in my professional and personal life. I was going to be efficient, aloof and respectable at work, and avoid any actions that would give the water cooler crowd any more fodder. There would be no more chasing after unattainable men in my private life either. It's a bad habit, and ladies trust me, they aren't worth it. I've walked the Victoria Secret show several times, and even I couldn't make a bad boy love me. Mere mortals shouldn't presume to succeed were angels fail, and I recommend cutting your losses if you're in a similar situation.

So, I've been trying to change my life for the better, sort of a grief induced self-help program if you will. You're probably wondering why then, did I go out and get off with someone in a bathroom if I really wanted to overcome my reputation at work, and my poor taste in men, well, there's two answers to that question;

Number one comes from the most esteemed Salt-n-Pepa, Daniel's favorite musical sluts;

_If I wanna take a guy home with me tonight  
It's none of your business  
And she wanna be a freak and sell it on the weekend  
It's none of your business  
Now you shouldn't even get into who I'm givin' skins to  
It's none of your business  
So don't try to change my mind, I'll tell you one more time  
It's none of your business_

It's the anthem he lives his life by. I'm not quite that cavalier when it comes to sex. I get my share, but generally I know more about the person I'm sleeping with, than say just their first name. Generally, but not always, so the song still fits, and the message is on point; Mind your business trick, and I'll keep being my fabulous self.

The second explanation about why I was in a bathroom, on the brink of sex with a stranger, first name: Ryan, last name: I didn't care enough to ask at the time, takes a little longer than a rap song to explain, so bear with me, if you're interested. One piece of advice though; you're going to have to check any and all judgmental attitudes at the door, or we're not going to have any fun.

_How many rules am I to break before you understand  
That your double-standards don't mean shit to me?  
I know exactly what you say when I turn and walk away  
But that's OK cause I don't let it get it to me  
Now every move I make somebody's clockin'  
Don't ask me nothin', will you just leave me alone?  
Never mind who's the guy that I took home...to bone _

_So the moral of this story is: Who are you to judge?  
There's only one true judge, and that's God  
So chill, and let my Father do His job_

_TBC….yeah this one's not gonna be PG. Act accordingly. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Still no royalty or residuals cheques in my mail. So, I'm going to assume I own nothing. Chapter title and lyrics are from the Madonna song "Bad Girl". Additional lyrics are from the Chromeo song, "Fancy Footwork" from their album of the same name. I know "Fancy Footwork" wasn't released till 2007, but I thought the song fit. Also, Ryan's quip about the grandfather is inspired by the twitter account _Shit My Dad Says_. Apparently, CBS is turning it into a television show and a book.

A/N: May contain spoilers for Season 3, episode "Legal". It's not much, but Ryan does tell Calleigh during the episode that he's been to that club before, when they're standing in the bathrooms marveling at the "intelligent glass" (does this exist? Or is it another example of CSI: Pseudo Science?). I always wanted to explain why he'd been in those bathrooms before. But, this particular chapter is set before "Legal", so it probably doesn't matter much.

Chapter 1: Bad Girl

_Relationships have been on the decline since women came out of the cave, looked around and said, "This isn't so bad"._

_-Samantha Jones, Sex and the City_

_The gods are punishing me for having a one night stand._

_-Miranda Hobbes, Sex and the City_

_Something's missing and I don't know why  
I always feel the need to hide my feelings from you  
Is it me or you that I'm afraid of  
I tell myself I'll show you what I'm made of  
Can't bring myself to let you go_

_I don't want to cause you any pain  
But I love you just the same  
And you'll always be my baby  
In my heart I know we've come apart  
And I don't know where to start  
What can I do, I don't wanna feel blue_

_Bad girl drunk by six  
Kissing someone else's lips  
Smoked too many cigarettes today  
I'm not happy when I act this way_

_Bad girl drunk by six  
Kissing some kind stranger's lips  
Smoked too many cigarettes today  
I'm not happy, I'm not happy_

_Something's happened and I can't go back  
I fall apart every time you hand your heart out to me  
What happens now, I know I don't deserve you  
I wonder how I'm ever gonna hurt you  
Can't bring myself to let you go  
_  
_I'm not happy this way  
Kissing some kind stranger's lips_

It's hard to know where to begin when telling this story, because when you're drunk enough to initiate anonymous sex in a night club bathroom (I was) it's usually pretty hard to remember exactly what happened on the night in question (I don't, at least, not vividly, or, in the way that would hold up in a court of law).

I do know it must have started with my roommate Daniel Ortega suggesting that we go dancing to forget all our cares. The "we" would have consisted of Daniel, our other roommate George, and I. Our cares, well, they could have been many and dramatic, or one of us could have simply been having a fat day. We were clubbing a lot at that time, so any excuse was valid, and I was, as I mentioned before, in mourning.

So, it stands to reason, if we base our argument on precedent, that Daniel suggested dancing, because Daniel was always the one who suggested dancing. Usually right after George moaned;

"What shall we do tonight? We must do something, it's Friday". This would have been delivered in an extremely posh, English and somewhat bored voice. George, or Georgiana Bowering, was, at the time two hundredth and some odd number in line for the English throne. She was perpetually bored because moneyed, well-bred people often are, what with the lack of having to work and all. George has a job, that is to say, she owns a shop in Miami that sells designer labels which are so exclusive that even the savviest of fashionistas remain unaware of their existence. It's just as well, because I'm pretty sure that only one percent of the world can afford her wares anyway. I imagine her sale volumes are pretty low, not that it matters to George. She's not in it for the money.

Anyhow, getting back to the night in question, I'm fairly certain George would have been reclining across some piece of furniture in our shared living room when she complained about her boredom. Try to picture a shorter, younger and curvier version of Kristen Scott Thomas, draped over a couch and you've got it. If you can't-I suggest you watch _Four Weddings and a Funeral_ at least once before you die.

"Dan-iel, Max-ine," she overemphasizes syllables when she whines. "Are you even listening to me?"

"What's that Georgie? I can't hear you over your bitching." I could almost hear Daniel's eyes rolling as he said it.

"You're awful," George pouted.

"I know."

Come to think of it, if this is how I remember it, there's a pretty good chance I suggested going dancing in order to put an end to what was going to become a bitch fest.

So, let's say I said, "Let's go dancing! We haven't been dancing in, well, six days, because we went last Saturday. But, still, it's been a long six days, very nearly a week. Right guys?"

There was no answer from the peanut gallery. So, I tried again.

"Am I right guys?"

"Maxine," George started and then paused to let out a sigh. "How many times do I have to tell you never to lump me into the term 'guys'?"

"Ditto." Apparently, Daniel was now on her side.

I could have gotten mad or walked away to find my own fun for the night, but I knew they were just being difficult for entertainment purposes. So, I reiterated my question in more pleasing manner. "Listen, you whores. I'm putting on a short dress and going out to find someone to take it off me. Who's coming with?" Honestly, at the time, I meant that as a joke. I had no intention of actually ending my night that way. I swear.

Both of them immediately jumped out of their seats with an, "I'm in".

An hour later, after splitting up to shower and dress we returned to the living room to apply our faces (Daniel wears concealer, the really expensive and natural looking kind, more men should consider it). I was busy trying to apply eyeliner, and drink champagne at the same time, when Daniel tapped me on the shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Maxine, honey, gorgeous, favorite girl of mine-

"Oi!" George had interrupted his flattery to take exception to his use of "favorite girl of mine".

Daniel quickly retraced his steps. "I was going to say favorite girl of mine… after George." This seemed to appease George and she blew him air kisses while swiping on mascara.

"What do you want Daniel?" I asked while giving him the side eye.

"Excuse me, but keep the daggers to yourself," he said when he noticed my look. "I just wanted to ask you nicely, if maybe tonight, you could, you know, take things easy?" His question trailed off into a few vague hand gestures.

I narrowed my eyes, well, first I put down my eyeliner and opened my eyes so that I could narrow them at him in a meaningful way, not just an, I'm applying eyeliner kind of way. "What are you trying to say?"

My aggressive stance seemed to make him reconsider his position. "No, never mind, it's nothing." His words said it was nothing, but his tone said otherwise, and when I caught him rolling his eyes at George, in what I suspected was a dig at me, I nearly lost it.

I put down the champagne and crossed my arms. "No, seriously Daniel, if you have something to say to me, say it."

He and George exchanged significant looks, and then they both gave me the kind of look worried parents give their wayward offspring.

"Daniel doesn't mean anything by it darling," George said. "It's just you've had a rough time of it lately, what with Tim-

"Tim and I weren't a couple. We never even slept together." I snapped.

"No, no that's true, but," she paused to apply the red lipstick I've yet to see her without. "You did care for him, a lot, and since he passed you've been, well, you were always up for a good time, but now-

"What's she's trying to say is we're tired of babysitting you every time we go out."

Leave it to a gay man to be blunt. Honestly, how many great misapprehensions would we women be laboring under without them? We'd all be walking around in outfits that make us look fat while dating losers.

"George and I would like to have a good time without having to worry that you're dying of alcohol poisoning somewhere while getting a train run on you."

"Daniel!" That last bit about the train was too much for George's cultured sensibilities.

I'm not so delicate. "Why don't you come over here and say that to my face fancy man?"

"Look Maxine," Now he was getting huffy. "You know I'm not implying that such activities are your usual M.O." He came towards me and switched into his sympathetic, one-of–the-girls mode. "But, you are really sad about Tim, and that's okay. We just think you should express your sorrow in more healthy ways, than say, acting like Slutty McDrunk every time we go out."

Maybe it was the champagne, or maybe I really did have a major case of the griefs, either way I started to feel myself well up. "Are you calling me a slut?" I could feel the tears landing on my cheeks. I pointed a finger at Daniel "That's pretty rich coming from you Mr. If He's Not Wearing a Ring He's Fair Game and Even If He Is It's Negotiable," then I turned to George. "Same to you The Duchess of Shagglington."

"Oh honey," Daniel rushed forward and wrapped his arms around me. "We didn't mean it like that. Did we Georgie?"

George hugged me from behind, effectively sandwiching me between her and Daniel. "No, not at all. Come on darling, don't cry."

It's hard to be comforted by two people who barely reach your shoulders, but that's life when you're 5'11 (6'3 in heels).

"Come on, let's sit you down, and clean you up," Daniel said while trying to ease all three of us towards the couch.

Once we made it and were comfortably situated Daniel and George recanted their low opinions of me, at least, I think they did. At the very least they explained their hypocrisy.

"Honey, you know I don't care who does what, or whom," Daniel began while wiping off my smudged eye make up. "But, if you're going to be a ho, go big, and mean it. Do it because it makes you happy, not because you're sad, or because you're trying to spite a dead man. So, you didn't land Tim. Fucking every available man in Miami isn't going to change that. The only person getting screwed-literally and figuratively-I might add, is you sweetie. Tim can't get hurt anymore."

"That's right," George was expertly reapplying my eyeliner now that Daniel had gotten the smeared stuff off. "We just want you to be happy, and honestly darling, I don't think you're happy when you act this way."

Daniel smiled at George's unwitting musical reference. "Exactly! Just like in the Madonna song!" Like most gay men Daniel is a huge fan of Her Madgesty. He immediately burst into song. "Bad Girl, drunk by six, kissing some kind of stranger's lips. Smoked too many cigarettes today, I'm not happy when I act this way!"

George and I couldn't help but laugh. Daniel loves his Madonna and musical theatre, but he couldn't carry tune even if you gave him a bucket. If you're ever in Miami and you notice a skinnier, more effeminate version of John Leguizamo walking around murdering "Like a Virgin" with a slight Spanish accent, that's Daniel. Or, one of Miami's countless gay, Hispanic men, but it could be Daniel.

He noticed our laughter, but he wasn't offended. "Are we okay now?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"Good, now, let's get your hair fixed up and put on some music!"

And, that's just what we did. I assume, because it sounds like the most logical outcome. Plus, I do remember our almost- fight pretty clearly (you tend to remember when your friends imply you're a tramp). So, we put on music, and made sure we looked better than any of the other wannabes going to the clubs that night. We probably drank a little more champers as well, because, even for those of us who are somewhat independently wealthy from our past life as a model, the cost of clubbing in Miami is high.

I know (because Daniel told me later) that I got really emotional after our talk and promised to be an exemplary friend that night, and not get too drunk, or disappear with some random guy. I pledged to just stay on the dance floor and have a good time with my companions. I assured them that I would not keep trying to fill the void left by Tim's death with drunken sexploits and that my self-improvement mission was going to begin again, right that minute. I'm also told that as we piled into a cab, on our way to the club I said, "I'm not even going to talk to any men I don't know tonight. No, I'm not even going to look at one!"

Well, you know what they say about famous last words don't you?

* * *

After a brief debate over where to spend our evening we settled on Chase Shaw's new club. It had everything Miami club goers could want; it was new, exclusive, the cover price was ridiculously high (not that I've ever paid to get into a bar), cocaine was freely available in the VIP section, and the bathrooms were co-ed, because no one actually uses them for their intended purpose anyways.

For the first couple of hours I was extremely well behaved, and upheld my pledge to not get _too_ drunk, and not chat up (with the intention of taking things further) random men. I just sat at the bar with George and Daniel, and we engaged in our usual at-the-bar behavior. Making fun of people's outfits and they're actions. Miami has a lot of high rollers, but money doesn't equal good taste, and there are tons of people running around this town who spend richly to wind up looking trashy. Gel press on nails anyone? Belly chains? White mini skirts? Popped shirt collars? It's all on display in this town. I swear the Miami club scene is like the website come to life, vivid, tacky life.

Finally, we got tired of watching the endless parade of J-Lo look alikes and their Guido boyfriends, so we took to the dance floor to show the high end trailer trash how it's done in the upper echelons of New York and Paris. Hint: They don't shop at Forever 21.

Everything was going fine until I had to use the bathroom. Usually, I do shots to avoid having to take bathroom breaks a lot, because in Miami you have to wait out the people fucking and snorting in the john, and it makes for long line ups, and urgent bladders. Shots-and take this a free tip from me to you- contain less liquid than a cocktail, so you can get just as drunk, but pee less often. See, models are smarter than you think. But, there were no shots tonight, due to my promise not to get off my face, so the champagne was working its way through me, and I needed to go ladies (much nicer than saying I have to go the bathroom/pee). Use it next time you're in a social situation with your girlfriends, "Sorry I disappeared. I had to go ladies".

So anyway, I was on my way to go ladies in ladies/gents bathroom's (Chase thought co-ed bathrooms were the coolest idea ever) when the trouble began. First, as predicted, the bathrooms, despite being plentiful (25 stalls) were all engaged. As I passed one frosty glass panel after another I got more and more agitated. I wanted to rattle a few knobs and scream, "Some of us actually have to pee you know! Find somewhere else to do your fucky times!" But, I didn't because I suspected causing a scene of any sort was not what George and Daniel would want me to do.

My salvation, and eventual damnation, came when I'd nearly made it to the end of the stalls. There, standing in front of the last bathroom, were two guys. Neither of them was peeing, snorting or fucking. Instead, they were watching a third man as he swung the bathroom door open and closed. The two observers seemed to be in a state of extreme concentration, like they were trying to understand a complex idea, but were only grasping part of it. The guy with the door was gesturing animatedly, and seemed to be trying to explain something to the other two. As I got closer I could make out the door swinger's words.

"Okay let me try this one more time," he sounded slightly exasperated, but excited. "This is intelligent glass, got it?"

"So the glass knows what it's supposed to do?"

The demonstrator sighed and looked skyward. "No, Phelps, it doesn't _know_, what it has to do. I've told you this three times already. The bathrooms are walled with intelligent glass. That's why you can see inside them when the door's open, and you can't when the door's closed."

Clearly, the one standing in the bathroom door was trying to explain how Chase's uber-trendy bathrooms worked, but his friends weren't getting it. I have to admit, I thought Chase's idea was cute, but not mind blowing. It's just liquid glass crystals and electricity. It looks cool, but it's based on pretty simple science. I'm fairly sure you could replicate it in a high school science class with the right supplies.

"Intelligent glass is just a fancy name for what happens when you take two glass panels, like these," The Smart One (I'd decided to give the men names) tapped on the front of the door, and the back. "These are two different sheets of glass. Understand?" Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber just nodded (What? The names are accurate). "The manufacturer pours liquid glass crystals between the two panels, and when they're left just as they are, you get a frosted affect, like this," He stepped inside the stall, closed the door and became a blurry outline behind the mottled glass. He also waved for added effect. He swung the door open again and it returned to its unblemished state. "Now, when the door is open, that's when something really cool is happening." Right, cool. Cough, Loser, cough. "There's an electrical current being run to this door, the circuit breaker is no doubt housed in knob and latch. When an electrical current is run through these crystals it makes them all stand up together, parallel. But, if you close the door, the electricity gets cut, and they all fall apart, all over the place, making the glass opaque, er," He seemed to reconsider his use of the word opaque, "I mean frosty. Got it?"

One of his companions stopped breathing through their mouths long enough to answer. "So, it's like turning on a light switch? When the power's on the glass is clear, and when it's off it's frosty?"

The Smart One let out a sigh of relief. "That's close enough Phelps. Well done. Yes, when the power's on the glass is clear, and when you turn it off, by shutting the door, it's opa-frosty".

Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber just smiled at each other and let out a long, "Cool".

I couldn't take it any longer, I really had to pee. And, I had no way of being sure that the Slow Twins wouldn't need another demonstration before they got it. So, I pulled my skirt up a few inches, put on my best model smile and sauntered towards the three of them.

I went into modeling when I was fourteen because an agent told me I was just what they were looking for. Before that moment I didn't really think of myself as beautiful. My parents were unrepentant hippies who raised me, and my brothers and sisters, on a commune outside of Boulder, Colorado. In that living situation, being smart and good with your hands, counted for more than being pretty. I don't think my mother even told me I was cute, pretty, gorgeous, or any other adjective for beautiful, once in my fourteen years.

We were making a rare visit to the mall in Boulder when a lady dressed in black, who smelled really expensive came running up to me. She wanted to know my height and age, if it wasn't too much. I mumbled fourteen, and I don't know. The lady in black quickly pulled out a tape measure and got down at my feet. When she stood up she said, "5'8 at fourteen! Perfect, because you're still growing". A few months later I was in New York doing test walks for designers. It was during those walks that I first got the kind of looks that were currently lighting up the faces of the Slow Twins and their smart friend.

You get used to it after awhile, but it usually starts like this; the viewer looks stunned, then apprehensive. Finally, depending on whether the individual works in fashion, or is a civilian, one of two things can happen, they turn judgmental (fashion insider), or they continue to gape (civilian). Note however there is a marked difference between the reaction of civilian men and women. Women give you the shank eye, men just look grateful. Whatever happens, you know that in the initial moments they were taken aback, by you, by your beauty or presence, and that's what counts.

The Slow Twins had moved on from gaping to cocky grins, this too is a regular occurrence, and is usually displayed by men who are not very attractive, but are still deluded enough to assume they could get a model. The Smart One was looking everywhere but at me, this happens a lot too. And, it told me that he was not only smart, but also, he wasn't delusional.

I decided then, that my attention would be bestowed on him, plus he was the one standing between me and the toilet I so desperately needed. "Hi."

He looked up, and his face was marred with panic. Looking at the floor meant he had no idea I'd gotten so close. "Uh, h-h-hey."

His companions were not so shy. They were already on top of both of us, proclaiming their greetings and trying to get my name.

I kept my eyes on The Smart One. "Actually, guys, I just came over here to use the facilities. The rest of the stalls are otherwise engaged. I hate to break up the science lecture, but I really need to use the bathroom."

"Oh, oh yeah, sure." The Smart One was already moving away from the door, and pushing the other two back with him. He held the door open like I was walking into a Fifth Avenue apartment complex and he was my doorman. "Uh, go right ahead, we're not using it. Not for its intended purpose anyway."

I gave him another mega-watt smile. "Thanks." He looked like he wanted to reply, but also like he couldn't breathe, so I continued. "But, I feel I should correct you. The breakers aren't in the door handle." Chase had already explained this to me on opening night. "They're in the wall. The only thing in the door handles are metal strings that pull on the breakers when you open and close the door. It's safer that way. People can get pretty rowdy with these doors. No sense housing the electronics where they can be easily broken." And, with that I closed the door and made a beeline for the toilet.

I had just sat down when I realized that I was not alone. The three friends were still outside the bathroom, and they were close enough, frosted glass or not, for me to make out their shapes on the other side of the wall. This meant that presumably, they could see me, on the toilet. I let out a long suffering sigh and held back the pee I so badly needed to take. Then I pulled up my panties and tottered over to the door. I opened it and watched as the glass shot back to clear.

"Um, guys?" They all looked at me expectantly, like dogs waiting for a treat from their master. "A little privacy, thanks?"

"Oh!" The Smart One looked mortified. "Right, um, sorry, yeah we'll uh, we'll just, go, uh, other there." He didn't point or look in any direction, just backed away slowly with his face on fire. There was a light scuffle as he pulled his friends, who were still staring at me, along with him.

I smiled my thanks, and then closed the door behind me. This time I ran to the toilet, and I swear, I heard an angelic choir singing as I did my business. After I washed my hands I stayed in the bathroom doing the kinds of things drunk women do in bar bathrooms. I played with my hair, checked my teeth, reapplied my lip gloss and picked at my mascara. Then I made a series of kissy, and sexy faces at the mirror while holding my hair off my neck. If you don't do that when you're drunk in a bar bathroom I apologize for over generalizing. But, I had just started wearing my hair curly, and was still unsure about the look, so I had to try several different faces and stances before I was satisfied.

The last thing I expected when I left the bathroom was to be approached by the Three Musketeers I had shooed away earlier. But, there they were, and Tweedle Dumb and Dumber proceeded to shove The Smart One towards me.

He smacked into the wall beside me and tried to regain his footing. "Um, hey, again," it took several seconds for him to get the words out.

I raised an eyebrow, but played along. "Hey yourself."

"So, everything went okay in there?"

He seemed to realize what a ridiculous question that was, even before his friends groaned audibly.

"Yup. It's a bathroom, works like one too." I said.

He looked like he would have run away by now if it had just been the two of us, but his friends were blocking any escape routes. "Right, yeah, sorry that was a dumb question. Uh, so you said the breakers aren't in the door handles?"

I took a deep breath and tried not to sound pitying. "Nope. They're in the walls."

"Right, the walls, you said that before." It was clear he really wanted to end the conversation, but was hoping I'd do it for him.

"Tell her about the glass!" yelled one of the Tweedles.

"Yeah, ask her if she knows how it works!"

He looked like he was praying the floor would open up and swallow him so I decided to cut the poor guy a break. "That's okay. I know how the glass works. I know the owner. He told me about the doors, and the handles."

Now The Smart One's face seemed to light up. "Ah, so you know _how_ the doors work. But, that's very different than knowing _why_ the doors work like they do."

Now I was getting a little short of temper. I hate how men and the world in general, have this misguided notion that if you're hot you must be an airhead. "Actually, I know _why_ and _how_ the doors work."

He gave me a smile and wink that was half- sexy, half- infuriating. In this situation it was mostly infuriating (Incidentally, I still get those smiles and winks at work when I try to warn him that he's about to do something stupid, like over- saturate a piece of evidence with Luminal, thus making the DNA on it useless). "Are you sure you know how it works?"

I crossed my arms and closed off my face. "I should. Because I've got a graduate degree in Cellular and Molecular Physiology, and the doors work on a fairly simple set of scientific principles."

He managed to look suitably impressed. "Wow! That's uh, that's awesome, if unexpected." He caught the look on my face and quickly back pedaled. "Forget I said that last part, I'm pretty bad with conversation, if you didn't already notice."

"Right."

"So, a Masters in Cellular and Molecular Physiology? Where did you go?"

This is my trump card. "Brown first, for my undergrad, then Yale for the Masters." Take that Mr. Are-You-Sure-You-Know-How-It-Works.

His eyes were the size of saucers. "Wow, again! Wait, if you went to Yale, you must have done a PhD. Yale doesn't do masters programs in the sciences."

"Well, they do, sort of. You are put into a PhD stream, but you can graduate after two years with the equivalency of a Masters, or keep going and do a PhD. I chose to leave, but, maybe I'll go back some day."

He smiled and nodded his encouragement. "You should, I, uh, I was on a similar path, but I got out to work. I just finished a Masters in Biochem at Miami U a few months ago."

Now it was my turn to say wow. "So, you were over at the DNA Core Lab in the med school hey?"

His eyes filled with recognition. "Yeah, I was! You know it?"

"Naturally," I added a little scoff to my voice. Who was your supervisor?"

"Dr. Myers. Richard Myers."

"Ah, so you're all about the DNA then." I won't bore you all with the details but Dr. Myers' research focuses on homologous genetic recombination.

"Yeah, I guess I am," he mumbled and scratched his neck.

My next statement was not made out of any desire to end up with my ankles around his ears, I promise. I just wanted to leave the bathroom, get a drink and maybe ditch Tweedle Dumb and Dumber. "Well, why don't you let me buy you a drink, and you can tell me all about your dissertation." I stuck out my hand for him to shake. "I'm Maxine by the way."

He looked dumbfounded, but took my hand. "I'm Ryan."

"Great. Pleased to meet you Ryan," I peered over his shoulder at the Slow Twins. "Do you think your friends will miss you very much?"

He, well, I guess I can call him Ryan now, looked perplexed. "I don't know? Why?"

I grabbed him by the arm and started hauling him towards the bar. "Never mind," I turned back to the Tweedles. "See you later boys!" Astonishingly, they didn't look upset, in fact, I think they may have been cheering.

* * *

I dragged my new friend Ryan up to the bar and looked around for George and Daniel. They didn't seem to be milling about, so I quickly sent them a text stating that I was okay, not super drunk, and hanging out at the bar if they cared to join me. See, I really did mean to be good.

"So, Ryan, what are you drinking?" I asked.

He looked bashful again. "Um, nothing really. It's uh, too rich here for my blood. After cover and one beer cost me forty bucks I decided to stay sober. But, I'll buy you a drink if you like?"

Okay, that was cute. And maybe that's when my thoughts started to get a little less innocent. But, I didn't accept his offer. He'd just finished grad school, of course he was poor. "Not a chance. Drinks are on me and the platinum," I said pulling out my American Express card.

"Wow, um, okay."

I rolled my eyes a little and pulled him closer by the lapel of the white sports coat he was wearing. "Ryan, can I give you a little advice?"

"Sure," he squeaked.

"Retire the wows. Try to seem a little less impressed, it's cooler that way." I let go of his jacket and straightened the lapel.

Here's the thing, I know he was wearing that jacket, because I always remember what a person's wearing, no matter how inebriated I get. It comes from years in the fashion industry, and I had already logged his entire outfit for the night. Jeans rolled up a few inches, like he'd been on the beach, Vans slip ons, a t-shirt with a calculator on it framed by the words, "If there was a problem, yo I'll solve it", and the aforementioned sports coat. It wasn't a terrible look, but it screamed student, and the t-shirt was too much. "Also, you may want to not wear a t-shirt with a Math joke on it when clubbing."

He looked dejectedly at his chest. "I thought it was funny. I mean it's not just a Math joke, it also takes a jibe at Vanilla Ice, who is from Miami you know."

"I get it," I assured him. "It's just that the masses in here, especially the ladies, may not." I gave him a critical once over. "But, everything else, works in theory. I'm not sure about the rolled up jeans, but it is pretty hot outside, and in here, so it passes. And, the band pins are a nice touch," I said fingering the round pieces of metal on his lapel.

He made a face. "I didn't put the pins on to be cool. I actually like those bands. And who are you anyway? The fashion police?"

"Close. I'm a model, or at least I was until four years ago."

He looked like he wanted to say "Wow" again, but was holding himself back. "Really? So you're a model and you have a Masters in Cellular and Molecular Physiology? Forgive me, but that sounds kind of dubious."

I considered naming off the various designers and ad campaigns I'd worked for, but I didn't think any of them would resonate with a twenty-something male. So, I went with my two most commercial endeavors that I figured he would recognize. "I was a Victoria's Secret Angel and I'm the Santos Coffee girl."

Santos is a pretty ubiquitous brand of Brazilian coffee here in the Gulf region. I posed for the ad campaign and my picture is on the packaging. It's just me frolicking around on Morro do Sao Paulo beach in a green, blue and yellow bikini. I'm told the brand is particularly popular amongst men aged 16-35. It's not the same level of sophistication, as say, a spread in Italian Vogue, but I'd already done two of those when I got the Santos gig, and it's going to help pay for my retirement.

"You're the Santos girl?" Ryan asked with disbelief. Then he stood back a bit to survey me, so I but on my brightest smile and stuck one hand behind my ear and the other on my hip, then I smiled coyly at him. "You are the Santos girl!" he exclaimed.

"Yup."

"I can't believe I didn't recognize you," he said.

I made a dismissive gesture. "Please, it's not like I'm running around in a bikini."

"No, you don't understand, my roommate, well, my former roommate, Chad, he had your picture posted up right over our coffee maker. He cut it out and taped it to the wall. Every time I made coffee for a full year, there was that picture of you from the package staring at me."

I smiled at him again. "Well, that's sweet. Tell your friend I said so."

"Well," He looked embarrassed again. "You probably wouldn't think it was so sweet if you heard the mock conversations he had with your picture every morning. They were pretty nasty, and somewhat stalkerish."

"Oh honey, I'm over it. I was a Victoria Secrets model. I know what you guys do with those catalogues." It was the full body blush this comment seemed to bring out in him, only made him seem cuter and I felt little tendrils of lust start pulling on my stomach. "So, after all that, what are you drinking Ryan?"

"Oh," I had startled him by returning the conversation to neutral ground. "Um, whatever you're having is fine," He peered around us at the crowd clamoring for alcohol. "But, we're probably not going to get served any time soon, so you really don't have to bother."

"Please," I said while putting my hand over his on bar. "Sweetie, tonight you're drinking with a model." I held my credit card out and gave a sharp whistle. The bartender, Devon was, like most bartenders in Miami, impossibly gorgeous, and also a part- time model. He turned around to acknowledge the sound, and we made eye contact. Devon quickly dropped what he was doing to come and see what I wanted. There were a number of loud complaints from our fellow patrons, but Devon ignored them. Here's the thing, if you don't want to be trumped by someone better looking, or wealthier at the bar, don't drink in Miami.

"Valera, gorgeous, what can I do for you?"

Valera is my professional name inside, and outside, the lab. When you're one of thousands of models with headshots it's best to have a noticeable name. I went with my surname, because it's more unique than Maxine, and it almost sounds like a woman's first name when you say it.

I leaned over the bar to air kiss quickly with Devon then I placed my order. "Two gin and tonics Devon," then I made a sheepish, but sexy face, "if you're not to busy?"

He just mirrored my own brilliant smile and said, "For you? Never."

"Thanks darling. I'll be sure to drop your name to Daniel when the shows start this fall." Daniel does hair for fashion shows and runs his own salon. He hasn't touched, as he calls it, "civilian hair", in years. Because he works for them, he's also friends with most of the important designers. A word from Daniel could get Devon the kind of runway work that translates into editorial spreads.

"Thanks babe! I really need the work!"

I took the drinks from Devon and handed him my credit card, only to get shooed away with a, "Your money's no good here". I turned back to Ryan, whom I realized I had largely ignored during my entire encounter with Devon. "Sorry about that. Hope you like gin!"

His response was to just stare. "I know you told me not to say this, but, wow!" He took the drink I held out to him. "I was here an hour and a half before I got served earlier."

I winked at him. "It's nothing. I just know people, who know people. Now tell me about your dissertation."

And he did. I remember being interested as well as entertained, and that I kept buying us drinks. I also know that as I got more liquored up I got tired of sitting in one place and talking. Besides at some point he started to get pretty drunk as well, and our conversation had degenerated from molecular biology to whatever it is people laugh at when they drink. I should also point out that this was around the time that Daniel later claimed he and George had started sending me a barrage of messages in response to my earlier text. I can't say for sure why I didn't answer them, but I think it was because it's rude to text in mid-conversation, and I figured they could find me. I was at the bar, just like I'd told them, of course, so were hundreds of other people, all forming an impenetrable phalanx, but if George and Daniel had wanted to find me badly enough, I have to believe they could of.

As I said, I was restless, and the DJ was spinning some good tunes. So, I decided I wanted to dance, and I couldn't just abandon my new friend. After all, I'd separated him from his own friends, and gotten him blindingly drunk.

"Want to dance?" I asked suddenly.

Apparently, while Ryan was drunk, he wasn't that drunk. "I don't know. I'm not really into dancing. Well, not to this kind of music anyway."

"Oh, come on. Just for a bit. We're in a dance club, what did you expect to do while you were here?"

"Stand in the corner and watch the Guido bags dance with their skanky girlfriends." He deadpanned.

I couldn't help but laugh at that. "Seriously though, if that's all you were going to do why did you come here?"

He shrugged. "I'm transferring to another job next week, and my colleagues, who you met earlier wanted to take me out as a sort of going away thing. They're locals, and not really bright-lovable-but not bright, so this is their idea of a good time."

I cocked an eyebrow at him. "This is my idea of a good time and I'm not stupid."

"Oh, no, I didn't mean it like that. I just- now I'm going to have to dance with you right?"

I nodded my head. "Mm-hm. My brilliant plan worked, well, brilliantly. Who's not bright now twinkle toes?"

He made a resigned sound and picked up his drink. "Okay, but I have to do something first." He pounded back his drink and shook himself like a dog getting out of a pool. "Alright," he held a hand out to me, "Let's go, but I can't be held responsible for the crushing of any toes."

"Yay!" I squealed and took his hand, pulling him towards the dance floor. "Thanks for being a good sport."

"Please," he smirked before spinning me around like we were waltzing. "As if anyone ever tells you no."

I didn't tell him, but I have been told no. Tim wouldn't have danced with me. He refused to even stand up at dance bars. He would go, if forced by Eric, but he would just find a seat and proceed to spend the night drinking, ignoring the crowd and making sarcastic comments. I'd spent more than a few nights out with my colleagues trying to cajole, if not outright beg, Tim to dance. I don't think it's really that much to ask, and guys if you're out there, girls find it much more attractive if you at least try, for them, than if you sulk to yourself in the corner.

We found a spot amongst the crowd, and Ryan, despite his protests didn't do a bad job in the dancing department. He was stiff at first, but I tried to loosen him up by dancing enough for both of us, and singing along to the words.

_Bright lights tv screens,  
Feels like looking in a magazine,  
_

_You run on the floor,  
Feels like dancing is the way to go,  
_

_But if you let her see that fancy footwork  
Show her that you're not that shy,  
Let her see that fancy footwork  
Show her you're that type of guy_.

I recommend following my lead whenever a man asks you to dance, but is then reluctant to perform. They're already nervous girls, so try to make it as easy as possible for them. Technically, I'd instigated the dancing, not Ryan, but I could tell he didn't lack rhythm, or ability, just confidence. So, I did my best to make him comfortable.

_Young boy don't be late,  
This girl ain't really got time to wait,  
_

_You think its all for show,  
But this is just the only way I know,  
But if you let her see that fancy footwork  
Show her that you're not that shy,  
Let her see that fancy footwork_

_Show her you're that type of guy._

Eventually he relaxed and we, to paraphrase Madonna, got into a groove.

_Hey  
If you ever need a guy,  
A partner for the week  
You're holding my direction  
Then just come and follow me  
We'll meet up on the floor  
And maybe do the twerk,  
So show me what you got in terms,  
Of fancy footwork._

I don't know for sure, but I think I finally decided I wanted to get to know my dance partner a little more intimately when I realized he was dancing with me, despite our height difference. I was wearing my favorite pair of black Louboutins with four inch heels. This meant I was a towering 6'3 to Ryan's average 5'9, and still he danced with me like it wasn't a big deal. In fact, he managed to work around it. Tim would never do that. He didn't like to dance, and he claimed to be particularly bad at it. Why, he always asked would I want to make a fool out of myself, and do it while looking up at you. Ryan was clearly shy, but he was making the effort, and the six inches between us didn't seem to bother him that much.

I'm not sure if I made any moves on him while we were dancing, but I suspect not, because at one point he pulled me down to tell me he needed to go to the bathroom. "This is really fun and all, but I can't hold it anymore. What do you think my chances are with the facilities here? Should I hope there's a stall free, or should I just go in one of their plants?"

I laughed and pulled him off the dance floor. "Come on, maybe my model wiles will get you a bathroom as quick as they got you a drink!"

"Can't hurt," he agreed and allowed me to lead him towards the bathrooms.

It was when we were climbing the stairs that led into the bathrooms, and the VIP area that my need to get off with him was cemented. We had just passed a really obnoxious statue that guarded the equally obnoxious VIP area when I realized Ryan was no longer beside me, or holding my hand. I turned around and spotted him in front of the sculpture. His legs were spread and he was bracing himself with one hand against the marble monstrosity.

"What are you doing?" I asked, running up behind him.

"What's it look like I'm doing? I need to piss and this statue, in fact this whole place, deserves to get pissed on. Cover me. The security guards just chased some dude into the VIP area. I guess he's not VIP enough for them. I'm gonna do this for him."

I can admit now, that this was the moment I fell in complete lust with him. But, still, I couldn't let him pee on Chase's statue. If he'd gotten himself kicked out of the club, I wouldn't have had any chance to show him just how in lust I was.

"Don't you dare! There are cameras everywhere! There's probably someone watching us right now in a room upstairs."

"You think?" he asked. "Damn, you're probably right." I heard a distinct zipping sound and he turned around. "I hate to be chicken shit. It's just- I'm starting a job next week that would frown on my getting arrested for public urination. But, need a toilet stat. If there's too many rich, snotty people doing drugs in there, I am going in a plant, security or not."

I let my gaze wander down the hallway of stalls. And, wonder of all wonders, the last stall, where we'd met, was open. "Look, the last one down, it's clear, so it's free!" I grabbed his hand, the one he hadn't just had down his pants, and ran.

We made it to the end of the hallway in seconds, and Ryan let go of my hand to wheeze a bit. "Jeeze, you sure can run in those heels."

I preened a little. "I practiced a lot."

He just smiled ruefully and shook his head. "Of course you did. Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I have to, as my grandfather would say, piss so bad my teeth are floating."

"He sounds like a funny guy," I replied while laughing.

"The funniest. I'm convinced Zayde should have his own show. They could just call it _Shit My Zayde Says_", he joked while holding open the door. "I hate to leave you standing here, but I've got to, you know," he indicated with his head to the toilet.

"Oh yeah, no problem, I'll wait here," I said in a rush. Then I remembered my plan to make him want me, so I lowered my voice and said, "Hurry back."

I didn't give him the kind of courtesy he'd shown me earlier when I'd asked for privacy while I used the bathroom. Instead, I pretty much plastered myself to the now frosted, glass wall and tried to make out his figure. I'm not sure what I expected to be able to see, it's not like the toilet was that close to the wall, and who wants to see a man's penis when he's taking a leak anyway? But, again, I was drunk.

I was so drunk in fact, that I didn't notice the blurry figure that was Ryan move away from the toilet, to the sink, and then the door. When he opened the door, the glass turned clear and I nearly fell into the stall with him.

"Oh hey, are you okay?" he asked and let the door swing shut, effectively locking us in, and shutting out prying eyes.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I just lost track of time I guess, and uh, was leaning against the door, because, um," I couldn't think of a good reason why I would have been pressed up against the door while he was urinating so I just trailed off.

Ryan didn't seem to care that I'd been trying to play Peeping Tom. "Take a look at this place would you? It's almost as big as my entire apartment. It even has a couch!" he pointed at the white, micro- fiber couch in the corner. "And it's way nicer than my couch. I hate this place! And the douchetard who owns it!"

Yeah, that did it. He was nice, smart, unimpressed by Miami's cheese and cute in a dorkish way. I remembered my promise to Daniel and George, but quickly blocked it out. This was different. I wasn't going to fuck this stranger named Ryan to spite Tim. I was going to fuck him because he seemed to be the complete opposite of Tim. And, in my sloppy state, that seemed to make sense.

I started to sexily amble towards Ryan, intent on having my way with him, but I only got as far as the toilet before slipping on my heels.

Ryan moved fast, and efficiently, for a drunk man, and caught me around the waist. My prone position reversed our polarities and I was forced to look up at him for the first time that night. He seemed to notice the increase in sexual tension on my side, and he just stared at me for a few beats. I was trying to figure out if I should kiss him or not when he blurted out, "Sorry".

I wrapped my arms around his neck. "What for?"

He didn't break eye contact with me as he spoke. "I peed a bit on the floor, out of principle. I think you slipped on it."

What can I say? He had me at, "I peed on the floor". I lunged for his mouth with mine, as Ryan tried to get me back on my feet. I guess he wasn't expecting me to try and kiss him at that moment because we wound up in a struggle with gravity and intentions. He won the fight against me and gravity momentarily, and got me back on my feet. But, I persisted and managed to grab him by the cheeks for a thorough kiss. When I pulled back I left my hands on his face and tried to gauge his reaction.

His eyes were wide and dilated. "Really?" he asked.

I nodded yes and pulled his head up towards mine. We kissed for several seconds before he seemed to find the six inches between us to be more of a problem than it had been previously.

"You're really tall," he said and dropped down off his toes. I froze for a bit and wondered if my height and my heels were going to be held against me. Some guys are into the thought of dating models, but they aren't into their actual partners being taller than them.

"It's my shoes," I said and bent over to grab at my left foot. "I can take them off!"

"No, no," he pulled me back up to face him. "The urine, my urine, on the floor, remember? You don't want to step in that," he peered down at my open toed shoes. "In fact, let's get you out of harms way entirely."

He led me towards the door of the stall, and at first I thought he was going to open the door and bring me back out into the club, thus ending our intimate moment. But, he just backed me up until I connected with the wall, and then he kissed me again. In order to resolve the height difference between us he boosted me up so I could wrap my legs around his waist. It was a presumptuous move on his part, but also sexy in a commanding way, and it put us on a more equal level.

"How's that?" he asked while bracing my weight against the wall. "Better?"

I crossed my legs at the small of his back and drew him in closer. "Much."

_Oh Valera, what happened to all your good intentions? TBC…… _


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: This is just a little update for anyone who has my two stories "Evenings with Lenny" and "Very Necessary" on alert or anyone who is reading my work in general and enjoys it.

If you've visited my profile at all you know I'm a fan of Jon Togo's. I write Ryan centered stories because I'm a fan of the actor who plays him, and because I get the character (I think that I do anyway) better than I do say, Horatio, who I'd have trouble writing a whole story around.

That said, this past weekend something kind of crap happened. Those of you hardcore Miami fans may already know; on Dec 12th, 2009 Jonathan Togo was arrested on suspicion of domestic violence. This isn't a rumor or slanderous statement (like I said I dig Togo/CSI: Miami/Ryan Wolfe). It's been reported by many, many media outlets the world over and their source is the LAPD itself (use google if you doubt). I can't post any news sources here due to rules, which I respect. Naturally, as a fan I'm pretty shocked. So shocked I'm not sure if I'll be finishing up my current stories.

I believe in innocent till proven guilty. I believe no one knows what went on that night but the people involved and the LAPD. However, I also think domestic violence is a serious issue, and I believe in the rule of law. As in, being a celebrity doesn't exempt you.

I don't know if Mr. Togo will be formally charged. I don't know if he will be exonerated. What I do know is domestic violence is a very serious issue for me personally. And, I view fan fiction as a form of tribute to our favorite shows, and by extension the people on them. For this reason I'm not sure I should continue to write for the character of Ryan Wolfe if the man who portrays him potentially has such serious clay feet.

At the same time not writing suggests I've decided a man's guilt preemptively. And, it also suggests that the character cannot be separated from the person playing them. I'm not sure what my position on that is. I do however, feel that continuing under my pen name, which references Jon's independent work, and pimping his web series in my profile would be not so awesome, if the charges hold. So, maybe I'll wait and see if more details come to light. Maybe I'll just change my pen name and distant myself from promotion of the actor. Or maybe I'll stop. It's mostly maybes because well, it's confusing when you find out people have the potential to fall down.

As I said, innocent till proven guilty, but at the same time, Hollywood justice shouldn't prevail if the charge is real. And, I don't want to participate in Hollywood justice. I'm not gonna go buy Chris Brown's new album. But, I wanted to update these stories just to let you know the dealio and also to say thanks for reading. Seeing my traffic reports on my profile and knowing that people from all over the world read is awesome! You guys are terrific! To anyone that's reviewed, or even taken the time to read my stuff…Thanks! Thanks! Thanks!

And, I might start posting again if I can feel not guilty about writing Ryan centered stories. And, if there seems to be no reason to feel guilty. So, maybe I'll be back in a week, but I'm gonna have to have a think on stuff.

Feel free to put in your two cents in reviews or PM's. But, no flames please. Like I said, I'm not saying he did it, I'm just saying being arrested on suspicion of it, is not so cool on its own. My concern at this point isn't really if he did or didn't, that's for the cops, lawyers and courts to figure out. My dilemma is whether I feel it is morally ok to write for this particular CSI character at the moment. I don't feel very tributary at the moment if you get my flow. So, if you are going to get at me, get at me about your feelings on the separation of character from representative on television, and story writing and creativity in general…not Togo's case. It's not our burden folks. My thoughts to the people who are carrying it.


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